An Ocean For A Pond
by sorchanator
Summary: Apparently, Amy Pond is Sherlock Holmes's only friend. The trouble is, Sherlock doesn't know who she is, and Amy can't tell him.
1. Chapter 1

O sweet everlasting Voices, be still;

Go to the guards of the heavenly fold

And bid them wander obeying your will,

Flame under flame, till Time be no more;

Have you not heard that our hearts are old,

That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,

In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?

O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.

-_W.B. Yeats_

* * *

It had been a long night of indignant explanations at the Yard and while Sherlock was newly embittered and motivated to start searching through his encyclopaedia of reptiles (John decided not to ask), John was looking forward to a mug of tea, a round of toast and jam, and bed. But as the cab drove off and they approached 221B, Sherlock stopped abruptly and threw a hand up in warning. John careered into his back and sighed. 'What now?'

'Someone's in our flat.'

'The flat.'

'Our flat, John. Someone's in it.'

John peered at the living room window. An inviting golden light emanated from it. 'Could be Mrs Hudson?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils in a rather equestrian fashion, his hand still held up as if to receive a high five. 'She's at her cousin's wedding in Coventry. They didn't come in through the front door.'

'How can you tell?'

'Honestly, John, are you incapable of taking a look yourself? Must I translate everything for you people?' Sherlock was getting grouchy. 'No new scratches on the lock, the door has _obviously _not been opened since midday when we left because it is sealed shut. I could go on but you seem to be missing the point, John. There is a _person in our flat_.'

'You can put your hand down now.' Sherlock stubbornly kept it raised so John irritably took his wrist and forced it down to his side.

'Come on. Let's go and greet our visitor,' Sherlock said slowly, stepping closer to the door and wriggling his key in the lock. Indeed, the door had stuck a bit, just as it tended to do when left for more than half a day. John followed Sherlock upstairs, his hand on his pocket where his phone was. There were clattering, sizzling sounds, especially recognizable to John in his hungry state. He couldn't help his mouth watering as he smelt bacon. Someone was cooking.

Sherlock seemed to have decided the intruder wasn't dangerous, as his footsteps became quicker and he pushed the door open without caution. The most exquisite fry-up smell caressed John's olfactory senses and the pangs in his stomach sharpened. Nothing all day but bad machine coffee and chewing gum.

The boys followed the sound and scent. And in the kitchen, expertly sliding fried eggs onto plates and humming vaguely, was an extremely pretty young woman, with long auburn hair and legs up to her armpits. As they came to stand at the head of the table, she slammed a stack of fried bread into the middle of the table, wiped her hands on her very short skirt, grinned at them and exclaimed, 'Ta-da!'

Sherlock moved his head in the way that John knew meant he was taking a panoramic photo and playing spot-the-difference. He looked back at the woman and his eyes seemed to vibrate for a second as he deduced her.

'Are you trying to deduce me, Mr Holmes?' she joked. 'Come on, look at this fry-up. Eat. Please.' She pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down.

'If the lady insists!' John said lightly, and took a seat next to her. It was a bit of a dream, having a gorgeous woman in your home cooking you supper when you most needed it. Sherlock paused for a moment, then loosened his scarf, threw off his coat and sat opposite John and next to the woman.

'Eat, Sherlock. I know you think it slows you down but believe me, you're not going to have much time to read your reptile encyclopaedia tonight, _or _tomorrow. You're too thin.'

John had already devoured half of the meat on his plate: plump and juicy sausages, salty bacon. It was a struggle to concentrate on the situation and the food at the same time; they were both interesting, but the food was winning. Sherlock kept his eyes on the woman, picked up a fork and speared a mushroom on it. She smiled at him encouragingly, clearly at ease with his manner. He chewed it slowly.

John took a slug of tea- two sugars, just how he liked it- and looked from one to the other. 'Um… do you two know each other?'

The woman said 'Yes,' just as Sherlock said, 'No.'

John shook his head and dipped a corner of fried bread in yolk. 'Nope, I still don't get it.'

'Neither do I,' Sherlock said carefully. The redhead smiled at him with unmistakable tenderness and pushed his plate closer to him.

'Please eat.' Their eyes locked for a few seconds, and John watched them, feeling very out of the loop as they appeared to be communicating wordlessly. Eventually, they broke their gaze and Sherlock picked up his knife and fork and began to eat voraciously. When the woman turned to John with a smile that seemed brave somehow, her eyes were shining with tears. She blinked rapidly. 'Glad you're enjoying it, John. Us Scots know how to fry.'

'I'm sorry, but could you please explain what's going on?' John asked. 'Who are you, how did you get in, how do you know about us…'

The woman straightened up and gave a little swallow, as if to steel herself. 'My name is Amy Pond. I'm here to… it's really complicated. You'll find out in time, and I can't tell you easily yet, it's too soon. But in this complicated… timeline I'm talking about, Sherlock and I trust each other. I'm his only friend.'

'No.'

John and Amy both turned to look at him.

'John is my only friend.'

Amy opened her mouth to speak, shut it, opened it again. She seemed to be struggling with something. Eventually she exploded. 'Just bear with me, okay? Everything will make sense in time, I promise. I really can't say much yet. Please. Please trust me. It is so crucial, you cannot even comprehend how urgent it is. I'm here to help you.'

Sherlock was watching Amy closely. She was composed again. 'Oh, by the way, I'm staying here. Don't worry, I set up my camp-bed.' She pointed over to the corner of the living room. 'Unless you want to take the situation as an excuse to sleep in the same bed, of course…' Amy Pond stood up and strode out of the kitchen. Just as Sherlock finally looked at John, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, Amy yelled, 'You two can do the dishes!'

* * *

**Plump and juicy sausages.**


	2. Chapter 2

'Shirley appears to have a new friend,' remarked Kate. Irene peered at the laptop screen and indeed, there were new photos from Moriarty of an absolute fox hailing a taxi outside Baker Street, returning with bags from Tesco, and leaving dressed in a scanty 'sexy secretary' style outfit. The accompanying message read, 'No important data on this one. Not really my area. You know what to do.'

'She's rather nice, isn't she?' Irene mused, and exchanged a smile with Kate. 'How should we go about snaring her?'

Kate clicked on the photos and zoomed in on the girl's face and clothes. 'I'd say she's a fairly ordinary lower-middle class girl visiting London for the time being, working in the tweened-up side of sex work. Although…' Irene raised her eyebrows significantly. 'Fairly ordinary middle-class borderline sex worker doesn't seem to be the sort Sherlock would go for. She'd annoy him, he'd annoy her, lifestyle clash.' Irene shook her head. 'Then again… John Watson is a normal bloke with a secret hankering for danger. That means this girl has a secret side and possibly a secret history with Sherlock. I'm also getting bi-curious vibes that haven't been acted upon yet?' Irene smiled triumphantly. 'What would you say? Former friend or former fuck?'

Irene moved Kate's hand from the touchpad and zoomed further in, scanning the redhead's face. 'Neither. I doubt Sherlock has a fuck in him. I'd better investigate. Cancel Harry's appointment, Kate. This will take some calculating.'

As Kate strode over to the walk-in wardrobe and threw it open deliciously dramatically, Irene smiled coolly at the picture. 'This ought to be fun.'

* * *

'Shit, shit, shit!' The woman standing next to Amy at the bus stop in Chalk Farm seemed to be on the verge of tears- and apparently not on the verge any longer. She glared at her phone and burst into noisy, gulping sobs.

'Um- are you all right?' Amy asked tentatively. No one ever pried in London but, Amy reasoned, the worst she'd get would be a 'fuck off' and the woman seemed really upset.

The woman was crying, sniffing and swallowing. She dragged a hand across her cheek, smudging the trails of mascara. 'No. No, I'm bloody not! Oh, _God._'

'Is it anything I could help with? Do you need the police?' Amy took a step closer to the woman and looked at her with concern. She was a little shorter than Amy, and wore jeans and a parka. Her bone structure was oddly refined and her complexion clear- entirely at odds with the typical Londoner's clothes she was wearing, not the sort of face you'd expect to see waiting for a bus in Chalk Farm at rush hour on a Tuesday afternoon. London turned people's faces puffy and grey and sallow. Despite her promises to lie low, Amy couldn't help being suspicious and intrigued.

'No! No, please don't call the police. Oh, could you please help me, I need somewhere to go for a few hours and hide, please.' Her accent was slightly stiff. The loosened 'o's and dropped 't's were forced and sounded strange coming from her carefully enunciating mouth. Amy narrowed her eyes.

'Okay. Come on, the bus should be here round about… now.' The 27 was creakily pulling up, jammed with jostling schoolkids. 'Fuck it, we'll get a cab. Do you have any cash?' The woman shook her head, only hesitating for a moment. Amy didn't believe a word she said. 'Great.' They headed down the main street, the woman glancing around dramatically. It was heaving. After the fourth try, Amy managed to hail a cab. Taking another look at the woman, she said, 'Edgware Road.' The woman's eyes betrayed her.

'All right. What's your game?' Amy asked quietly. The woman acted bewildered for a moment, but then sighed and shook her hair out.

'I saw you, I got bi vibes, I liked what I saw, I decided to try this tactic out.' Her voice was posher now.

'Really. You were trying to chat me up.'

'Well… there doesn't have to be any talking... but just tell me your name, so I can moan it later…' The woman leaned in closer, trailing a hand up Amy's leg under the long coat she was wearing. 'You probably haven't been with a woman before, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve. You'd like it, I'm sure. It's a whole new world.' She moved her hand slightly higher, her face slightly closer, and Amy shoved her away roughly.

'_Aladdin_ references aside, stop mauling me. Heaven knows I've had enough of that today.'

'Oh, so you're 'in the business' too?' the woman asked, retreating to her side of the seat again.

'The business?'

'Come on, you know very well what I mean. Catering to the desires of the depraved.'

'No! I'm not a prostitute. I'm a kissogram. I'm staying here for the time being and I need some cash. I go to parties and I kiss people.' Rolling her eyes, Amy undid the buttons of her coat to reveal a cheap Playboy bunny costume.

The woman's eyes were colder, mocking. 'You offer a service for money. So do I, although frankly, darling, at least I don't have to get the bus to a working men's club in the slums, wearing polyester and velour, to give a dirty old man a snog. I don't even have to touch my clients.'

Amy blew her hair out of her eyes and glared at the woman. 'So tell me, O superior one, what the hell do you do that makes you so much better than me?'

'I'm a professional dominatrix.'

They looked at each other for a few moments before Amy burst out laughing. 'What?' said the woman, with a touch of indignation.

'You hit people, I kiss people, we both wear corsets. Come on, we're the same. We're both on the verge of sex work. It's fine, you don't have to be so defensive.'

'And you don't have to think yourself better than prostitutes, because you are fifty quid away from being one and there's nothing wrong with it. I'm sure many would argue you're no different.'

'Touche,' Amy said, and then, 'I'm Amy. What's your name?'

'Kate.' They shook hands.

'D'you want to come back to ours for a cup of tea? No hanky-panky, okay?' They both laughed.

'Sure.'

Amy rapped on the glass partition and said, 'Baker Street instead, sorry mate.' The driver grumbled and Irene smiled, her plan back on track. Once they'd arrived, Irene paid, ignoring the protests of Amy.

'My friends might be home,' Amy said distractedly to 'Kate', fumbling with the key in the lock. 'Boys?' she yelled upstairs. There was no answer. 'Coast's clear.' But once upstairs, Sherlock opened the door to the living room and smiled down at them. He was wrapped in a sheet and wore headphones, from the sound of it blasting a Japanese pop song.

'Hello, Irene,' he said pleasantly.

* * *

Sherlock took it upon himself to make tea in a pot, and the three sat around the main table, Amy shifting piles of books to the other end and Sherlock glaring at her. 'Those are arranged.'

'It's for their own good. Crumbs and tea splashes might endanger them!'

'So,' Sherlock started, ignoring Amy. 'What a coincidence. Irene Adler and Amy Pond turn up in the same week. Did Moriarty put you up to this?'

'No,' Irene said quickly. Too quickly, Sherlock thought. 'I saw you had a visitor, I wanted to visit her. If you know what I mean.'

'Terrible pun. And terrible disguise, too. Your face, your nails, your voice, your posture, it all just screams upper middle class. Have a gold star, you tried.'

'I noticed that!' Amy said. 'I didn't believe her, I was going to throw her off. But we found a, uh… common ground. So she's not really Kate?'

'Of course not. Kate is her maid.' Sherlock began pouring the tea.

'And she's not really a dominatrix?'

'No, Miss Adler is definitely a dominatrix, in the truest sense of the word. Sugar? Milk?' Irene shook her head at both.

'Just a slice of lemon and some honey.'

'Tough, it's normal tea or no tea in this flat, unless you're having one of Sherlock's eccentric home-made blends,' said Amy. 'Aaaanyhoo, what's the connection here? I don't know any of these people you're talking about.'

'Sherlock and I met on one of his cases,' Irene began. 'I had something the government wanted, he didn't manage to foil me on this one.'

'What did you have?'

'Some compromising photographs of myself and the nation's beloved. Insurance. They're gone now, anyway, someone made the mistake of attempting to dismantle my phone. Explosives. I beat Sherlock Holmes.'

'Bet he didn't like that,' said Amy. Sherlock glared again. 'Put some clothes on, Sherlock, you're in the presence of ladies.'

'I don't mind,' said Irene.

'Neither do I. I'm going to the loo, update me when I get back.'

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, placed the cup back on the saucer and steepled his hands under his chin, his strange gaze penetrating Irene's. 'It's Moriarty, don't lie to me. He _will_ be disappointed when you return without news, as I haven't the foggiest what or who Amy Pond is either. Although I'm sure if he searches hard enough, something will come up, and if it does, I'd be rather pleased to know as well.'

'Would it kill you to put the toilet seat down?' came Amy's voice from the bathroom. They both ignored it.

Irene began to stir her tea, avoiding Sherlock's calculating eyes. 'Yes, it's Jim.'

'On first name terms, are we?'

'If I referred to him by only his surname, it would make him out to be a villain, a big bad. His first name normalizes and grounds him. It shows him I'm not scared of him. So you can stop implying that I've only reached this rank with him by fucking him.'

'I wasn't implying that.'

'Perhaps not intentionally, but it's at the root of your words.'

'It would be a logical conclusion for one to innocently reach, however.'

'But nonetheless an insulting one. So you really don't know who this Amy is?'

'Obviously.'

'Not to me. You seem to trust her rather readily.' Irene lifted her gaze and stared at Sherlock meaningfully. 'What's with that?'

Sherlock stood up and paced back and forth in front of the window. 'My first cognitive reaction upon seeing her was to believe that she was a safe person, a familiar person. I'm not usually one to trust emotion over rationality, but I do believe there's something to be said for instinct. Most people can't remember the first instinctual thought that crosses their brain. Well, most people aren't me. Now I believe that's enough. And do tell _Jim _to stop installing cameras in inventive places around the flat, it's such a bother dismantling them.'

Irene stood, her tea untouched. 'I suppose that's all I'm getting from you. This has been a waste of my time and quite surprising, as well. Goodbye, Sherlock. Goodbye, Amy!' she called. 'She has been rather a long time in there, hasn't she?' And Irene Adler left.

When Amy eventually resurfaced, Sherlock was dressed in his usual suit, a purple shirt straining against his taut chest. 'You're looking a bit suave,' she exclaimed. 'Going outside?'

'Go and get dressed. I need you to walk with me, Amy.'

**Changed a few details, obviously. This is a bendy-canon version of events. **


	3. Chapter 3

So as mystery-solving Sherlock and mysterious Amy trudged the damp grey streets of north London, a couple of miles away from them, big brother Mycroft rubbed his temples in MI5 headquarters. It is rather endearingly British that MI5 HQ is slapped next to the Thames in silver-steel central London, and not tucked away in a desert somewhere like our more dramatic counterparts, but HQ isn't exactly where the bad stuff goes on.

Your narrator digresses, and will now retreat, dispensing with this obnoxious narrative style. Mycroft Holmes sat in a windowless room in MI5, talking with an anonymous voice on the phone. 'You are making this more difficult than it needs to be. Give me a name, any name, it doesn't have to be yours.'

The androgynous voice was silent for thirty seconds. Exactly thirty seconds, Mycroft noted, probably planned for dramatic effect. And then, 'Mr Holmes, this case is a lot more personal than you think. Your brother seems to be involved. Sherlock Holmes.'

'Yes, well, he does like to meddle. Nothing too alarming there, we can set a trail in the opposite direction if needs must, but when he's not being petulant he can give, shall we say, a new dimension to our investigations.'

'No. Mr Holmes, we came to you because we know you're the boss of the bosses. You're used to gruesome, some would say immoral, cases. The origin of these… incidents, is- extra-terrestrial.' No breaths on the line. It must be a customised voice simulator, he thought, and jotted something down.

Mycroft chose his words carefully. 'Am I supposed to be impressed? Or perhaps shocked?'

'Mr Holmes, there is nothing on the records _anywhere _indicating Great Britain has come into contact with alien life forms. There were the single-cell organisms found on Mars, but that was it. Unless…'

'Please stop starting every sentence with 'Mr Holmes', it's getting quite tedious. I'm sure you'll get there eventually. Bear in mind that I do not work solely for Britain.'

A few seconds for them to think it through, and then… 'Ohhh. You had access to the US classified files.'

Mycroft's hand hovered above the plate of biscuits before selecting a ginger nut. He spoke with his mouth half full. 'Some. For example, the SCP database, the religious order known as the Silence's involvement in the moon landing, what was left of Henry van Statten's employees. Mr Stark's detours. But of course, there are secrets I am still working to uncover. And do not for one moment assume the US is the centre of _everything_. You would be very surprised at the amount of things Iceland has managed to hide from the UN. Yes, I know rather a lot. Pray tell me your country of origin.'

'We aren't so far from you, Mycroft Holmes. A little to the east.'

'Suffolk?'

'Bit closer.'

'Canary Wharf.' Silence. 'I thought you had disbanded or relocated. How many of you are there now?'

'That doesn't matter. But now you know who we are, we need to know who she is. And more specifically, who _he _is. Your brother.'

'I assume the 'she' you're referring to is the girl who appears to have taken up residence with said sibling. Background checks were done weeks ago, keep up. She's Amelia Pond, 23 years old, from Inverness via Leadworth, working as a kissogram. Lots about her with the NHS, she's been handed from psychiatrist to psychiatrist over 12 years due to apparent delusions. No connections, no arrests, no periods of absence- nothing to mark her out other than the fact that she is still managing to live with my brother.'

'That is the girl we were referring to. I know I don't have much evidence to give you, but please keep looking. You're a clever man, Mr Holmes, you can read between the lines of documents and so can your brother. He's not safe. There's more to it. Did you read her psychiatrist's notes?'

'Briefly, yes. I don't particularly care about her, I just worry about my brother. I worried that she might be a relic from a part of his life that was rather unsavoury. Just a brief check that Amelia Pond isn't a dealer or a moll.'

'You should have read them. Because this is extra-terrestrial, and her delusions weren't delusions. They were about the Doctor.'

The blood drained from Mycroft's face. '_The _Doctor.'

'Someone should be running into the room round about now, Mycroft Holmes. There's not a lot of time. You'll most likely be referred to UNIT. Keep on digging, and warn your brother. This isn't about bombs and threats and codes, this is about the fabric of reality. It's starting to tear. Bear all this in mind, and don't let them get their arsenal out, because-'

The line cut off abruptly, and Mycroft placed it carefully on the desk, clutching his head with his hands, his brain hurtling full speed through theories and false histories. He straightened up quickly, flattening his hair back into place as a nondescript man entered, on his own, and shut the door behind him quietly.

'Holmes.'

Mycroft clasped his hands together and stared the Director General unblinkingly in the eye.

**Just to clarify, this is not a Superwholockvengers fic. This is strictly Wholock, and I will probably make passing mentions of other fictional universes but Tony Stark is not going to show up with a tank missile and save the day. **


	4. Chapter 4

'How did you come across the means to travel in time, Amy?'

Amy stared at the pavement and bit her lip. 'I met a man. Well, I say man.'

'Please elaborate.' Sherlock had slowed down and was looking at her intently and impatiently.

Amy appeared to think for a few seconds, before resolving to tell him. 'When I was a little girl, a blue box crashed in my garden and a man climbed out of it. There was a crack in my wall. There were... voices in the crack, and he said he'd come back but he didn't for twelve years. There were many more complications but eventually I went away with him. He travelled in a TARDIS, and he told me it could travel through time and space. And that's all I can tell you for now.'

'You can't tell me why you're here? Or any of the other numerous and very important queries I have?' He sounded disappointed, and stopped walking. Amy dragged her eyes up and made herself look him in the eye. Her mouth tugged downwards with something indefinable and complex.

'I'm sorry. You have to work it out for yourself.'

Sherlock gritted his teeth. 'If it has to be that way, then fine. What was the name of this man?'

'He called himself the Doctor.'

'Could you give me some key words to aid me on my journey?'

'Hmm... okay, I suppose. Cracks. Watch. Layers. Time. Bond. I really hope I haven't said too much.' She hurried on ahead, wrapping her coat tighter around herself.

'Amy!' She turned halfway around to look at him, tears now spilling down her cheeks. 'Did someone send you to me?'

Amy shook her head slowly. 'No. I made a choice.' And she broke into a half-jog, and disappeared around a corner.

Sherlock closed his eyes and thought about every significant instance in his memory that those five words had been used. Time and watch, yes, or perhaps she meant he should be more careful? Bond, James Bond, bonding metal, friendship, connection... There was a theory that time existed in layers rather than lines. He'd always envisioned time as a vast vortex always hurtling and sucking towards something unfathomable yet obvious, painting it in purples and reds and oranges to make up for his brain's lack of ability to imagine new colours. For now, he'd stick to cracks. They were the first thing Amy mentioned, and her voice quavered as she mentioned them. Sherlock ran his hand along the brick wall lightly. There were cracks in the mortar, and the only voice he could hear was an MC spitting words at someone's club night. They hadn't walked very far. He had no chance of a cigarette. Idly he considered approaching the hooded youth on the bridge and scoring, but John was such a harridan and he needed absolute silence in order to think. Bringing home any bags of white powder, walking in with contracted pupils and a skittering drum of a heart, they'd all shriek and fuss. He gritted his teeth again. London was so noisy.

* * *

Amy only made it to a bus shelter near a council estate before she burst into spluttering, messy sobs. She buried her face in her scarf and didn't hear the shiny black car pulling up next to her. But she felt the presence of a glamorous woman with a professional blow-dry and skirt suit behind her, and she choked out, 'Yeah?' without looking around.

'There's someone who would like to speak to you,' said the woman, in a crisp, fresh-out-of-Oxbridge accent.

Amy turned around, dragging the back of her hand across her cheeks, black smears of mascara. 'Who wants to know?'

'A worried onlooker. Please, get into the car.'

And perhaps it was because Amy was tired, or emotionally worn, or stupid or mad, that she slid into the back seat without protesting.

* * *

**Very sorry for the delay. And apologies for how short this chapter is, but it won't be so tense/angsty later on!  
**


End file.
